


Bed Card

by Captain_Loki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Fighting, M/M, Makeup Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They decided awhile ago bed was sanctuary, safety. They don't bring fights to bed. Whether they're finished with them or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bed Card

**Author's Note:**

> based on this headcanon by [halesparkles](http://halesparkles.tumblr.com/post/48103358572/how-do-they-cheer-each-other-up-when-the-other-is)
> 
> cross posted to [tumblr](http://captain-snark.tumblr.com/posat/48105980418/based-on-halesparkles-headcanons-angsty-little)

They’re in the middle of a fight. It’s been three hours and twenty seven minutes according to the clock on the oven. Stiles is pacing, arms crossed over his chest, nervous energy making him wear away the floor beneath his feet as he moves. Derek is still, silent and brooding, angry bitter tension rolling off him in waves that catch around Stiles’ ankles, trip him up.

They’re both tired, voices hoarse from hurling angry stinging insults neither of them means except for how they hit with such poignant accuracy. It’s four AM and Stiles has class in the morning and Derek is supposed to be meeting with contractors in two hours. But neither of them thinks of sleep with resentment forming like bricks between them, building walls in stoic gazes and brisk, unhappy huffs of laughter.

Three hours and fifty eight minutes and Derek’s voice breaks when he says, “are we breaking up?” Like he’s honestly unsure, and Stiles realizes that neither of them has ever done it before, how would he know what it looks like? And suddenly, Stiles’ voice gets caught in his throat and he sputters, hands come up in a flash to form a ‘t’ with the edges of his hands as he shakes his head.

Derek looks at him, stricken.

“Time…” Stiles says, voice soft, growing more certain, laced with desperation as he waves his hands in front of Derek, stepping closer. “Bed. I’m playing the Bed Card,” he nods, fervently and Derek shakes his head.

“Stiles—“

“No. I’m calling Bed Card. Now,” he nods, manic. He pushes past Derek and moves towards the spiral staircase, doesn’t bother to see if Derek is following, because he knows, by now, he is. Always is. They move wordlessly towards the carefully made king sized in the loft of Derek’s space. Stiles tugs the sheets up, dislodges a few of the pillows and climbs beneath, head first, like a disobedient child past bedtime, and waits.

Derek crawls in after him and they lay, on their stomachs, side by side in the dark for a long moment saying nothing. Stiles crowds into Derek’s space then, flips them, kisses him, hard. Derek doesn’t protest, moves with him until he’s rolling onto his back and letting Stiles fit himself between his legs. Stiles is hard already, and he rolls his hips, lines his cock up with Derek’s growing hard in his sleep pants between them.

Derek pushes at the waistband of their pajamas until they’re down around their thighs, cocks free to press together, hot and leaking against their stomachs. Stiles brackets Derek’s head and kisses like it counts. Like judgment day is looming with daybreak just on the horizon and he might not get another chance at this. Derek licks into every corner of Stiles’ mouth his tongue can reach and tugs at his bottom lip until it’s plump and swollen red, slicked with spit.

Derek pushes at them, gets Stiles on his stomach and scrabbles for the lube, arm reaching out blind towards the nightstand before he’s wrapping his fingers around the bottle. He’s three fingers deep in Stiles before either can really register it, air growing heavy and thick beneath the blankets but neither of them makes any effort to push them away. Stiles is writhing on the sheets beneath him, splayed out, ass thrusting back to meet Derek’s fingers, moans pitched low and desperate as he preps him.

“Fuck me,” Stiles begs, “I’m ready,  _fuck me_ ,” he says, pressing his face against the sheets and groaning. Derek obliges, envelopes Stiles, lines his cock up with his hole and presses in, wraps his other arm around Stiles chest before he drapes himself across his back, mounting him, thighs strong where they brace on either side of Stiles’ hips.

They fuck with a frenetic rhythm, Stiles groans growing lower and lower as Derek’s rise higher and higher. Stiles knows he won’t last long, already on edge, sleep still hovering, subdued beneath endorphins and adrenaline and the heavy weight of Derek pressing from all sides. His cock pounds in and out, it’s hard and quick and exactly what Stiles needs. He needs to feel it, to wake up with his limbs heavy and his ass aching like he’s still stuffed full, hips with faded fingerprint bruises and bite marks on the back of his shoulder where Derek’s teeth clench at his skin.

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles huffs, wrecked and desperate, sobbing. Derek doesn’t say anything, doesn’t usually, just noses at the nape of his neck and fucks him harder, until he’s crying out with it, pumping hot, cock spilling out on the sheets beneath them, ass clenching around Derek who thrusts twice, three times more before spilling inside him, pulsing. He comes with Stiles’ name rent from his mouth like a plea and Stiles sighs contended at the breath of it against the shell of his ear.

They pull the covers off after, breathing deep and harsh, rolling away from each other to pull air into their lungs bursting with it. And then they’re laughing, desperate and crazy. It’s a long time before they stop, before they’re breathing unlabored in the dark of the quiet room.

“I don’t want to break up,” Stiles tells him, serious. Derek turns to look at him, strokes a hand lazily down Stiles’ cheek and watches the way he nuzzles into the touch.

“Me either.” Stiles rolls until he’s bumping into Derek’s chest, Derek throws the covers back over them messily, wraps his arms around Stiles and holds him close, doesn’t intend on letting go.

Stiles ends up missing his classes, and Derek thinks the contractors can go to Hell, for all he cares, because in the morning Stiles cooks him pancakes and bacon, lets Derek lick maple syrup from the crack his ass, and tells him he loves him as he makes Derek clean it off in the shower later.


End file.
